That Rule Doesn't Apply
by Plurimisverbis
Summary: Tiva from the pov. of their co-workers  sort of .  Rated M for language & sex.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, some dialogue, titles + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just fun. The rest came out of my brain.  
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**I wanted to see if I could write the other characters - so I did Tiva from the pov. of the rest of the team. Each chapt. is sort of a one-shot. There's no real order and no overall 'story' - except T & Z. The cases fragments are not relevant- just filler so you'll never find out what happened.  
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**I used the visit of Ziva's Dad 'cos I needed a focal point to tie them around. It is not connected nor a continuation of my other story about Eli.**

**The quotes have no real bearing on the story - I just picked ones I thought suited the character's view of Tiva. Except I couldn't find one for Palmer...  
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**I'm not sure it worked. It didn't come out like I thought it would in my head + I've a couple of angsty tales roaming my head that kept trying to make an appearance in this one - only I wouldn't let them. This layout might be a little confusing. Sorry if that's the case!**

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"Oh DiNozzo, You Have No Idea."

Silver War: S3

**Five Years Ago.**

It was inevitable. Ziva David was going to have a dramatic effect on the team. Leaving aside the obvious: that she was a foreign agent. That she was the handler for the man who had murdered their colleague, Kate. That Ari was her half-brother; that she had, essentially, executed Ari; saving Gibbs' life and exacting retribution for Kate. Leaving all that out of the equation, she still meant waves - Tsunami-sized ones.

They were a good team, the best. Gibbs had made them the best. He had bullied, coaxed, threatened, coached and tested them. Using his own formidable abilities, he'd taken their individual skills and forged them into a seamless, highly effective unit. They had lost Kate, the third leg of the stool and they had wobbled.

The director had thrown Ziva into that carefully balanced machine – filling the gap with an unknown entity. In their world, Ziva knew nothing. She had a remarkable skill set: languages, the experience of numerous covert operations informing her actions. She was disturbingly comfortable with sinister interrogation techniques, equipped with the fighting abilities of a Special Forces soldier, a weapons expert with deadly accurate aim. Ziva was neither an investigator, nor a seeker of truth, nor an upholder of Justice. She was an operative; given a target or an objective to acquire by whatever and all means necessary. She was an assassin; a fearless, finely-honed, and utterly lethal weapon.

Ziva David was unlike any woman Tony had encountered. She was a beautifully exotic combination of contradictions: confidence with a curious vulnerability, sometimes brutal honesty versus reticence, reckless yet always tightly controlled and with a bewitching, mercurial temperament. Ziva fielded whatever Tony threw at her without batting an eyelid. Then she'd return it with interest, daring him to up the ante. Ziva affected and possessed Tony on a level he'd never believed existed; he was captivated.

For her part, Ziva couldn't ever quite figure Anthony DiNozzo out. He was an extraordinarily charming puzzle – a bewildering mix of the straightforward and complex. Too many layers to pin down: intelligence masked by the playboy, sensitivity disguised by cavalier disregard, integrity hidden by arrogance. His personality wouldn't conform to any of the profiles dictated by her training. Tony got under her skin and invaded her psyche. He had the seemingly effortless ability to read her like no-one else ever could; forever keeping her off balance, challenging her.

Despite several diversions, their attention always reverted to each other; it was a titanic struggle. And consequences were inevitable.


	2. The Boss

"Am I Missing Somethin' Here?"

Recoil: S5

**October 2010**

Gibbs barely stopped himself from slamming the door to Vance's office as he stormed out. Eli David was coming to Washington with Malachi Ben-Gidon. Gibbs' team was assigned protection duty. It was an undisputed honor. A testament of just how highly his team was regarded, by SecNav, the Director, by everyone. Right now, Gibbs took no pleasure in that esteem; he wanted to drink his coffee and to figure out how to minimize the trouble. He knew it was coming; just not how much or what kind. He gave a rueful smile. They were the best; which meant whatever mayhem it caused, they would do the job. Leaning over the railing, he surveyed the team – his de facto family. The current investigation was wrapping up. They were professional, thorough and competent – always - just as he had taught them to be. The banter drifted back and forth.

"Aren't you done with those bank accounts yet?" DiNozzo was lying back in his chair, feet up on his desk – at this moment the very image of unprofessional.

McGee didn't look up from his computer screen. "No, Tony" was the patient reply. "Maybe you'd like to help with this?" indicating a stack of paper.

Tony yawned and leant back even further, closing his eyes. "Can't, McBean-counter; waiting on a call-back."

Ziva cocked an eyebrow "Tony, are you admitting to us you can only perform one action at a time?" As Probie, she was stuck with the most boring aspect of the paperwork.

"There's a Hitchcock factor here, Zee-vah – twisted motives, money and betrayal. I just can't decide which one." He opened one eye and then broke into a wicked grin. "Plus two hot blondes…."

"Together or separately, Tony? We are speaking of multi-tasking." She teased. The temperature in the bull-pen went up several notches.

Gibbs sighed: the normal routine for those two. Mutual chemistry fuelled by competing egos and novelty. They'd been fascinated with each other from day one. That initial reaction morphing into an unfathomable, complex relationship. In the beginning, basic lust had kept Tony and Ziva circling – natural behavior for attractive people with healthy libidos. A storm of pranks, verbal sparring and invasions of personal space perfectly illustrating the eternal law; opposites do attract. Gibbs sternly kept it to just this side of acceptable with reiteration of Rule #12. And countless head slaps. He stamped on any hint of crossing _that_ line. Always watching like a hawk for the first signs the hurricane would derail his team. Tony and Ziva became the two halves of one peerless investigative unit. The different styles combined: each one compensating for the deficiencies of the other.

Jenny's vendetta entered the mix; the arms dealer and his daughter. Tony had lost his focus, found himself out of his depth. Gibbs had always suspected it was because Jeanne _wasn't_ Ziva. Not necessarily a conscious choice, Tony could distract himself with the antithesis of the Mossad Officer. Jeanne was pretty, intelligent, worthy. She was also safe and mundane and predictable. Jeanne lacked the barely contained fire that was Ziva – there was no exhilaration, no knife-edged danger. Tony shut Ziva out; the rift in their partnership confused and hurt her. It got difficult. Once the saga concluded, the dynamic had changed. The spark was ever-threatening to ignite but with an added ingredient. Gibbs recognized that they could inflict serious damage on each other. They had become irretrievably entangled.

Gibbs quietly observed as Tony and Ziva, resumed their crazy dance. If Tony's undercover op. had been difficult. Rivkin was a full-blown disaster, nearly catastrophic; with Eli David the chief architect. Tony had been rightly suspicious of the Israelis - his mistake was permitting those instincts to be directed by jealousy and thwarted desire. When Ziva understood she had been used and betrayed, she struck back with an unreasoned, damn-near fatal, response. And, then, Tony had rescued her; like the plot line from one of his movies. He'd traveled to the god-forsaken ends of the earth, risking himself, all to avenge her death. It even came with a classic twist ending. Tony had saved his 'damsel-in-distress'; a rôle only Tony would picture for Ziva. It had taken a long time for the dust to settle - in some ways it was floating still - and the dynamic altered further. Their intricate formula shifted parameters, evolved and continued.

Gibbs dragged his thoughts back to the present. His last, scathing, words to Malachi Ben-Gidon, echoing in his brain: "This the way your boss operates? Sends you to try to burn her? Go. Get out of here. You tell Eli David to stay away. She's off limits." Now Eli was coming here. He needed to talk to Ducky.

The current case involved a Marine Captain's wife. She had been kidnapped, forced to give her captors access to the bank where she worked. Less simple; the fact that her husband had arranged for her kidnap, to fund his elopement with his mistress. It was an everyday exercise in callous betrayal and greed.

McGee paused in his calculations, "You know, Charlotte Daniels was pretty lucky. They didn't kill her. All things considered…..."

Before he could finish, Tony bolted upright in his chair. "Yeah, she was right in that 'I'm so fucking lucky' zone last night." He snapped.

It was night when they found her; bound, in a dark storage unit. Four days after she'd been taken. Tony and Ziva appeared, with a cuffed, limping kidnapper - whom they had pursued into an alley. Ziva was looking at the dazed, shaking woman in the back of the EMS vehicle. Charlotte Daniels was wrapped in a blanket, silently huddling into it, tears seeping from one eye. The other one nearly closed by swelling from an evil looking bruise. A haunted expression formed on the Israeli's face. She paled; the look in her eyes, distant, mirroring that of the recently rescued captive before them. Ziva's head dropped and tension gripped her shoulders.

"Hey Zee-vah" Tony tried to capture her attention. She muttered a phrase, head down, not looking at him – transfixed by the sight of the shivering woman.

The kidnapper smirked malevolently – humiliated by being so comprehensively defeated by a woman, he was enjoying Ziva's obvious distress. "What's the bitch's problem? She's gone psycho on ya."

Tony shoved the guy out of the way. "Stand there and shut the fuck up. Open your fucking mouth again and I'll let her maim you. And, trust me, she knows exactly how to make it hurt."

The ferocious instruction produced the desired effect. Tony fervently prayed Gibbs couldn't see or hear any of this. He tried to reach Ziva again, tapping her on the back. That was never a wise move with Ziva at the best of times. This wasn't close to being even a just OK time. The last time he'd attempted to touch her, when she was troubled, she'd reacted with a lightning fast reflex. Tony had been fortunate not to have something dislocated. As she whirled around, he backed out of range. The faraway, lost, look in her eyes was gone. She was no longer mesmerized by Mrs. Daniels. And she was startled – the defense program had activated - which meant she was angry.

"What?" She snarled.

Tony let go the breath he'd been holding. "Take Mr. Blonde here over to the car."

Confusion replaced anger; Ziva was puzzled. "His name is….?"

Tony would find it funny if he wasn't so relieved, "Reservoir Dogs?" He shrugged, "of course not. Forget it."

The boss appeared from the far side of the ambulance. "DiNozzo" - business returned to usual.

As Gibbs came down the stairs, the chatter continued.

"You know, I think those Ninja skills of yours are slipping." The comment was thrown out whilst Tony waited to see how Ziva would react to McGee's remark. "I mean, come on, Zee-vah brings the guy back with only a minor _limp?_"

Ziva tilted her head to one side.

"Careful Tony, it would not take much for me to make your bad knee worse." She looked across at him, meeting the gaze he'd focused on her the minute McGee had spoken. Her smile conveying several messages; all encoded within that one facial expression.

McGee finished the money trail. He was oblivious to the non-verbal, multi-layered conversation taking place in front of him.

"Well, the money trail is accounted for" he exclaimed in triumph. "Ziva, I'm sure your talents are as lethal as ever. Tony, you know she can hurt you. It's late. I'm going home." McGee's methodical response was in perfect sync with his routine of powering down equipment and packing up.

Tony warmed to his theme, satisfied that McGee's innocent comment had not caused any harm. Now he was simply enjoying baiting her. "Seriously, McGee, our little bundle of deadly force brought him back; not bleeding, still conscious and able to walk - kind of. It's a definite decline."

Ziva threatened, "Much worse, Tony."

Gibbs strode past the desks. "Paperwork'd better be finished; 'cause I can bring in everyone of you bleeding, unconscious and unable to walk". He growled. Taking a sip of coffee to hide the grin at the flurry of activity his words provoked.


	3. The Pathologist

"Ah: Personal, Not Professional."

Legend Pt. 1: S6

**October 2010**

Down in autopsy it was quiet – as befitting a place for the dead to whisper their stories. The room was always quiet, save for the murmur of conversations, the clink of medical instruments. It was a weirdly soothing pool of sterile calm. An excellent place in which to think: the respectful, muted atmosphere lending itself to puzzle-solving. Really, it was surprising how many of them had, at one time or another, sought either refuge or a moments' peace there, amongst the naturally and unnaturally deceased. Though, perhaps, not so surprising since it was Ducky's domain – himself a source of sympathetic wisdom and comfort for the afflicted – and, fortunately, he included the living in that remit.

Ducky was at his desk. Gibbs knew he would be. Palmer had gone home. The large room was dimly lit and the bodies were 'tucked in' for the night, as Ducky liked to put it.

"Well, Jethro, to what do I owe the honor?"

He'd heard footsteps, recognized the walk. Swiveling around in his chair to greet his visitor, he automatically reached into a drawer for the bottle of Scotch, two glasses and splashed a measure into each. He handed Gibbs a glass, raised his own in salute and waited.

Gibbs returned the gesture, "Trouble." He took a drink. "Eli David's coming to Washington." Gibbs took another drink, grimacing, "We pulled protection detail." His dilemma laid out for Ducky in three unvarnished statements.

Ducky nodded comprehension, no further explanation needed. "Ah, yes, Ziva." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

"Ducky?" Gibbs prompted. "You're the one with a degree in people. Will she handle it?"

Smiling at his friend's observation and his uncomplicated approach to the problem, the ME thought for a moment.

"You know, Jethro, she's a lot like you. Think on it. You're both soldiers, both assassins, sanctioned and otherwise." This said without a hint of reproach in his voice. "Both willing to give whatever it takes, you both bury your emotions." Pausing before he added, "both nursing terrible hurts."

He glanced at Gibbs who grunted assent to some non-specified item on the list.

"Though stemming from different causes" Ducky allowed. "Ask yourself, what would _you _do?"

Gibbs pushed himself off the autopsy slab he'd been leaning against, "my duty."

Ducky nodded again, "precisely."

Gibbs pressed, "So she can handle it?"

The Scotsman sighed. "Yes. And most of us will never see the cost."

Gibbs drained his glass. He seemed less than comforted by the assessment. "What I thought. Thanks for the drink." He headed toward the doors.

Ducky returned to his forms and, with impeccable timing, complicated Gibbs' worries. He called toward the retreating figure, "Not at all, Jethro, always a pleasure. Have you spoken with Anthony about this?"

Gibbs stopped in his tracks, turned and asked quietly "Should I have?"

Ducky closed the folder, giving Gibbs an exasperated look. His exterior was rarely ruffled. When he was surprised or annoyed, the only clue was the trace of Highland lilt became more pronounced. "Oh, for god's sake man, you can't be that blind."

Gibbs started to walk back. "Not blind, Duck. There are rules." He'd said the phrase so many times over the years: my team, my rules.

Ducky picked up his whisky glass – he never rushed a nightcap – and waited for Gibbs to draw level. Gibbs found a seat, shook his head in refusal at the proffered bottle.

"Alright, let's hear it."

Ducky chuckled – most people recoiled when Gibbs fixed them with that piercing stare. He was too old, had known the man too long, to be bothered by it. He took a leisurely sip and began.

"Yes, those rules…. Ziva compartmentalizes; it's how she'll manage this, this Eli situation – takes tremendous discipline. She won't discuss it, any of it. You, Jethro, came closest with the Damocles debacle, but then you and Ziva have always shared a bond. Fathers and daughters; that's one relationship…"

Here Ducky paused, having deliberately blurred to which of Ziva's 'fathers' he referred. The biological one: Eli or the one in all but name: Gibbs.

He continued. "Fathers, daughters and their daughters' suitors, well that's always fraught."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at the assumed casting of DiNozzo as Ziva's 'suitor'. "Rules keep order, Ducky. Even families have 'em."

Ducky smiled. Gibbs was still on target.

"Quite. I doubt she's talked about whatever happened, all of it at any rate, with Anthony, but that's not important. No. What is important is she hasn't _needed _to talk to him about it. He's found his own key to her – he 'gets' her, if you'll forgive the vernacular. And she's allowed him to get close."

The downside to any consultation with Ducky was, sometimes, he took his own sweet time to expound the theory. Gibbs was getting restless.

"So they have broken the rule?" Always direct.

Ducky shrugged. "Oh, I've no idea on that one. My guess is probably not – although it depends, rather, on how one defines 'dating.' You're missing the point, dear boy. Reminds me of…"

Gibbs wondered if he'd been right to refuse the second wing, this was taking longer than anticipated. "That point is?"

Irritation creeping into his voice: he wanted a simple answer and wasn't getting one. There wasn't a simple answer. Eli David and his damned Mossad were still causing him headaches, five years down the line. And two of his agents were doing….whatever the hell it was they were doing.

The ME noticed his audience drifting. "Yes, the point. The point is, Jethro, you sought my advice on how Ziva will be affected. _My_ advice is to ask the man who's closest to her and that man is Anthony. For this question Rule #12 is not relevant."

Seeing Gibbs about to protest, he shook his head. "Your rule, put in place after Jenny?"

It wasn't a genuine question. Only Ducky could venture, without fear, into the complicated territory of Gibb's past personal life. "She told me the whole story when she was diagnosed."

Gibbs flinched slightly, "only her side of it, Duck." Memories swirled within his brain.

"Yes, well, fortunately, I've known you for a very long time", was the dry observation. "And I am rather adept at filling in the blanks of one-sided conversations – occupational hazard one might say." Another sip, he leaned forward earnestly. "It is, as a general principle, a good rule, Jethro. One made with the best of intentions. I simply don't believe it applies in this case. It is grounded in your experiences, and they are….they are…"

Here Ducky's legendary eloquence failed him. Unable to find a suitably encompassing description, he finished up lamely, "They are Tony and Ziva."

For the second time that night, Gibbs headed for the doors, unsettled by what he'd heard.

Ducky prepared to finish up. "One last thought, perhaps there was an omission to my earlier question. Perhaps I should have asked; what would you do if _you_ were in Anthony's situation? Goodnight Jethro." His cheery dismissal indicating no answer was required.

On his way back upstairs, Gibbs couldn't help admiring Ducky's tactics. The advice was sound, though some of it maybe unwelcome. Ducky's talent with reading people was usually accurate. It was his approach Gibbs was thinking about. Part analysis, part gentle lecture and part appeal on behalf of romantics everywhere. It was no coincidence his friend had managed to slip into the discussion Gibbs as father-figure, the fact Gibbs had not just _dated_ a co-worker, but enjoyed a lengthy, passionate affair with one. Jenny and he had survived its break-up - as had NCIS – eventually settling on friendship. And Ducky had cryptically reminded him what it was like to be a man desperately in love.

The scene from the storage facility three nights ago slipped, unbidden, into his mind. Tony had been beseeching the wrong gods, or they weren't listening. Gibbs had witnessed the whole episode and, most significantly, the final moments. Once Ziva had regained her equilibrium, they had stood, for a micro-second, impervious to all around them. Eyes locked, bodies practically touching, yet not; an invisible portal linking them.

Maybe he should talk to DiNozzo.


	4. The Director

"And He's Our Only Interest."

Truth or Consequences: S7

**October 2010**

Gibbs stood in front of Leon Vance's desk.

"We all set on this Mossad visit?" The director was economical with his questions and his time. He wasn't a micro-manager; keep Vance informed, he'd let you do your job. He trusted his agents, most of the time. He was also a lot more astute than people gave him credit for – forgetting that behind the suit of a political animal was a career agent – one of them. It was always best to check the sub-plot, before giving away too much information. Gibbs remained impassive.

"Think so, Leon. We'll find out." The two men didn't exactly trust each other. The ex-Marine held an inherent suspicion of the bureaucratic end of the organization. The Director was mindful of possible consequences, if Gibbs was allowed a completely free rein. Over time a grudging respect had emerged. Vance regarded his top investigator.

"I don't want any incidents."

There it was. He was concerned about professional reputations, maybe private ones. The exact nature of his boss' connection to the Director of Mossad was murky. Who owed whom, and what, seemed to be deliberately vague. Gibbs, still not satisfied was non-committal.

"No guarantees in this line of work. You know that."

Vance made an impatient movement with his hand, tired of the tap dance; time for orders.

"I want it strictly by protocols. No marking of territory. No settling of scores. No dramatic plays for the heart and mind of Agent David." He paused for the words to sink in. "Eli David, and his entourage, will be here as guests, under our protection_. _We _will_ extend to him every courtesy. Do I make myself clear?"

Gibbs leaned on Vance's desk. "I told our last Mossad _guest_ to tell Eli David she's off limits. There'll be no drama unless he didn't get that message." His tone was quiet, the words carefully spoken but irritation was brewing in his eyes.

Vance was unfazed and he didn't blink. This was a low score on the Richter scale for Gibbs – barely registering as a warm up. He looked at the photos, on his desk, of his own wife and children. "You said it yourself, Gibbs, man's gotta have some feelings. He's her father. We need to respect that."

Gibbs gave a dismissive snort and walked over to the conference table.

"I said that before I knew he'd sent her on a suicide mission, before I knew he'd abandoned her in the desert," anger and contempt growing in his tone. "Her father used her as an asset. When she needed him, because she's human, he discarded her. I won't ever respect that." He pulled out a chair.

The Director glanced out of the window, "She's still his daughter…."

Gibbs crashed his hand down on the table and his voice was raised. "She's my agent, damn it. NCIS extracted her. _No-one_ left behind," borrowing the Rangers' motto. He sat down.

"What are you really after here, Leon?"

Resignation replaced rage. His team would be used; pawns in the favors and debts game of the 'bigger picture'. With the preliminary head-butting out of the way, Vance folded his arms and fixed Gibbs with his own brand of unyielding stare.

"You keep DiNozzo on task. On a leash, if you have to." It was his turn to show a flash of temper. "This is gonna be hard enough for everyone, without him bringing attitude. I don't want him pulling any Romeo and Juliet crap. Understood?"

That came out of left field and Gibbs laughed.

Leon Vance wasn't a believer when it came to workplace gossip. He was old enough, been around enough to know wherever people work together rumors, mostly untrue, start and circulate. He liked to take the temperature of his organization from time to time. An agent first, he had his sources, he observed and he listened. Like Gibbs, he had the uncanny knack of appearing out of nowhere. He strolled around, connecting with his people, a little intelligence gathering on the side. Early one Sunday morning, he had a mini-conversion of faith.

**September 2010**

Weekend cover shifts were a downside to the job. This one was no exception. Worse, the case was dull: Petty Officers, drugs, juiced violence and a lousy, way-too-early morning. Tony was at his desk, gingerly flexing his hand; the knuckles swollen and scraped. He didn't shave on weekends unless he had to and he hadn't this morning in protest at the early start. His lower lip was split and a bruise was visible - despite the stubble. A first aid kit was open on the desk. Ziva was gently administering a gel ice-pack to his injured hand.

"You were gone long enough," he complained. "What did you do, go to Siberia for it?"

Ziva, ignoring the comment, smiled sympathetically. "Perhaps you should have this looked at?" She was perched on his desk - legs straddled either side of his.

"Nah, I'll get Ducky to check it out tomorrow." No bodies, no Ducky, no Autopsy Gremlin. "You should see the mess the other guy's in."

Ziva laughed. "I did see the other guy, Tony. I broke his wrist."

The building seemed deserted. "OK, but couldn't you have done that before my hand hit the chair?"

They were waiting for Gibbs and McGee – she hoped with some coffee and breakfast.

"Couldn't you have got out of the way?" the question accompanied with a teasing note in her voice.

"If I'd moved, Zee-vah, the chair would've hit you". She removed the ice-pack.

"True." She allowed. "So thank you. Does this hurt?" She carefully wiggled his fingers.

Tony flinched. "Christ. Yes if you're gonna twist them like that." He took his hand back, aggrieved.

"I am sorry. I was trying to help." Ziva leaned forward and gently touched his mouth. "How is your face?" Almost curiously she traced her thumb along the edge of the bruise, feeling the stubble.

"It hurts too." He pulled his head away with a slight jerk. That hadn't hurt. It had caused a different reaction. "And I have a headache," by way of an excuse. Tony rolled his head around from side to side, rubbing his neck.

Ziva surveyed the room, looking for something. "No." She thought for a moment before commanding; "Stand up, switch places."

Once he was sitting on the desk, she stood in front of him, between his knees, and started massaging the back of his neck and base of his skull.

"You are too tall" Ziva explained. "This will help, yes? It would be better if you were lying down."

Tony grinned; her set-up too good to ignore, "fine with me, Zee-vah."

She smacked the back of his head, hard.

"Ow. Jesus, I just told you I have a headache."

Ziva really did have magic fingers when it came to massages and she knew just where to work. It wasn't the first time she had helped remove the kinks. Occasionally, on long stake-outs, or a day spent cramped in the car, she would offer if she noticed him fidgeting. As Ziva began the atmosphere was easy, relaxed. For several minutes, she provided blissful relief – soothing the ache, rubbing away tension.

"Relax, Tony," she murmured into his ear, her voice low.

That was becoming more difficult by the minute. Intently focused on her task, Ziva was standing much closer to him than when she'd started, leaning into him. He could see straight down her shirt, he could smell her body cream, perfume or maybe it was just her. Four out of five senses were under siege. Tony had slid off the desk, resting against the edge, his good hand on her hip; initially an attempt to prevent her moving any nearer. Her top had come un-tucked; his fingertips were brushing soft, bare skin. Without thinking, he was caressing small circles and lines – the contact no longer accidental.

"Does Nurse Ninja come with a uniform? "Make house-calls?"

A joke, perhaps she'd take offence and move temptation out of his reach. Or she'd hit him, giving him a new sensation to concentrate on - one that didn't involve her skin. Either option was good. Ziva did neither – she abandoned the massage. One hand slipped to his shoulder, the other playing with the short hair on the back of his head. Definitely a new sensation - one that wasn't helping reduce the temptation factor, any. All Tony had to do was move his head slightly and sense number five could be in play. Ziva edged closer with an intrigued smile, her breathing shallow – anticipating what he would do next. Tony's other hand came up, the sore knuckles no longer registered. Caution mingled with desire, battling for supremacy. There was a limit to enforced chastity and Tony discovered he'd just reached it.

The flying to and from L.A., regularly, was an exhausting chore. When Vance arrived back in Washington, he stopped by the Navy Yard to tie up a few loose ends. He might salvage half a weekend with his family. From the upper level, he glanced ahead into the squad room. It wasn't just their proximity, or the easy familiarity of the pose that bothered him; or even the fact DiNozzo's hand was on David's back. First impressions often were deceptive. At this distance, it was impossible to discern precisely what was happening. What triggered alarms for the Director were those elements; added to the rumors. Sealing it was the way they both jumped, like a gunshot had sounded, as the elevator announced its arrival. The scramble to place some distance between themselves so fast, they almost tripped over each other.

**October 2010**

"You know something I don't, Leon?" Gibbs was relieved: his gut instinct that had proved correct. It was a fishing expedition; he'd just assumed the wrong type of catch.

"You've heard it all, as well as I have, Gibbs." Vance's smile was a mix of amusement and annoyance. "There's at least four betting pools, in this building, concerning those two. Have they, will they, will David incapacitate DiNozzo if he tries it and, will you kill them both if they do." He was toying with a pen, finally throwing it down - exasperated. "Hell, the way I hear it, Fornell's outfit's even got a bet going on some undercover op. from before my time." He inclined his head in appreciation. "After five years, the pay-out must be pretty high on that one."

Gibbs stood to signal they were done. "DiNozzo's no Romeo."

When his hand was on the door, Vance asked, "What are you going to do?"

Gibbs half smiled and shrugged. "See if Tobias can get me a bet in that pool?" He didn't want to answer Vance's question and batted it away.

The Director thought and tried again, "Inside information?"

As he walked out of the office, refusing to be drawn, Gibbs called over his shoulder "Always the best kind to have, Leon."

He would have to talk to DiNozzo.


	5. The Autopsy Gremlin

"That is Because You Are A Good Person."

In The Dark: S4

**October 2010**

There were two bodies today – unrelated and uncomplicated. One, a Chief Warrant Officer had dropped dead of a suspected heart attack. The usual suspects involved; lifestyle, age and weight. The other was an unfortunate accident involving prescription medication and a forklift.

"….and so, poor old Julian pronounced C.O.D. Drowning - whilst standing as far from the actual corpse as possible. All very well until someone pulled the 4 inch blade out of the fellow…" Ducky was regaling his assistant with another of his endless supply of anecdotes.

"Did you know that Director David is coming here, Dr Mallard?" Palmer offered; feeling the need to contribute something to the conversation.

"Yes, Mr. Palmer, I did hear something to that effect," was Ducky's neutral reply.

"And that other guy, the one from the Damocles?"

Palmer wasn't especially concerned with the Tony and Ziva drama. He viewed all of the investigative agents as more than colleagues and less than good friends. Of course, he had made a bet; 'yes, David will hurt DiNozzo if he tries it'. He was awe-struck with her ability to inflict harm with her bare hands. DiNozzo was a notorious womanizer so it was a no brainer as far as he could see. Palmer suspected even Dr Mallard had placed a wager but lacked the courage to ask him. Palmer's main interest in the subject stemmed from sparing his own blushes. Whenever, the supply of fresh speculation wore thin, there was always the danger someone would bring up his unfortunate liaison with Agent Lee. That experience had made Palmer a staunch advocate of Rule #12. Besides, in his view, Tony and Ziva were incapable of not fighting long enough for anything to happen with one minor exception.

**December 2009**

She'd found him sitting on a bench in the small park close to the Navy Yard. He knew she'd find him and she knew he'd expect her. It was a cold, cold, grey day. Light flakes from what was forecast to be a fairly significant snowfall were floating in the air. A friend of Tony's, from his days as a cop, had been killed. A patch of icy road and an ill-timed deer had converged to result in a fatal accident. The lack of mystery or foul play only served to increase the sense of futility. He hadn't been a casualty in the line of – it was just an ordinary instance of bad luck. He was married with two kids. The funeral held a couple of days ago and the Holidays were right around the corner. After an interview with a relatively minor, but particularly grating, witness from an on-going case, Tony had disappeared. Bluffing Gibbs or, at least, hoping that's what she'd done successfully, Ziva had gone looking.

"Gibbs wants us. A Lieutenant Commander has been found dead."

Tony hunched forward. "Right, like there's a fucking shortage of death in the world". His voice was bitter and cynical.

She was standing above him and lightly touched his head. Ziva was worried; Tony was always troubled by death or rather, loss. It was one of his personal demons. Tony's mother had died, in an auto accident, when he was a child. Ziva knew what would be eating at him. Tony would be reliving and reflecting on the shattering disruptions and hurt of his own experience. Trapped by despair at the random injustice and worrying about his friend's family. He was sensitive to their suffering and frustrated by his inability to change it. Ziva simply stood beside him, running her fingers through his hair; content to wait until he wanted to talk.

"Christ, over sixteen years as a cop, mostly without getting hurt." He shook his head, in disbelief. "It was a running joke; Steve had his own personal force-field. Never took a bullet. Always came out of 'resistings' with barely a scratch – while the rest of us could have had the crap kicked out of us…" Distant memories were jumbling in his mind, "and then a god-damned car wreck."

He glanced up; "Happy fucking Holidays," giving her a shaky smile.

Ziva crouched down in front of Tony and took his hands in hers. Her disquiet increasing as she observed the sadness on his face. People always assumed Ziva's detached approach to death and tragedy meant she lacked compassion. In fact, as a result of near-permanent familiarity with the subject, she was all too aware of its nature. She had seen so much sorrow in her life. She had dealt out a substantial amount which came at its own particular price. Ziva knew that no words were ever sufficient. This wasn't her strong suit and, yet, she desperately wanted to comfort him.

"Tony" she began, "I, I could tell you that he was a good man; a devoted husband, loving father. That it was a privilege to know him - even for a little while. That you will remember the good times. That he was a loyal friend, a dedicated cop - one of the best. And that is all true."

Tony was looking at her hands, clasped around his. She paused anxiously searching for a sign he had heard her.

"I _would_ repeat all of those things, if I thought any of it would make you feel better. If I could take away your pain I….." Ziva stopped and took a breath; that was bordering on a complex area. What they would do for each other and why. "But we never stop missing them, do we? Or wishing it had never happened."

"Mom loved Christmas."

Tony looked into warm eyes and he could see the concern. His Ninja was distressed just because he was hurting. Her solemn speech had been so classically Ziva; the genuine sincerity of her words not diminished by the 'no bullshit' delivery. In her own way, she was reassuring him - without the useless platitudes. Ziva understood him on an intuitive level. Tony hadn't had to explain. She removed a glove and gently stroked his cheek. His smile was steadier this time and Ziva was relieved. She knew she had reached him, stood with him on the edge of the abyss and was dragging Tony back from his darkness. It was so cold, she shivered a little. Tony noticed.

"We should get back."

Ziva straightened up in one balanced, graceful move and held out her hand to pull him off the bench.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

She had, unconsciously, hooked her arm through his – in a gesture of comfort, friendship – and so she could huddle nearer for warmth.

"I just knew." Ziva quickly looked up at Tony; the simple admission had slipped out by mistake. She continued, "I did check in the Mens' Room, first, because of this," indicating the snow.

The flakes were falling more heavily and Ziva was catching them; "fiocchi di neve, sono perfetti, sì?"

She expressed her delight in Italian because she could and, mostly, because she knew he liked it. Ziva was fascinated with snow. At least, the first couple of falls and then she'd complain endlessly until the weather warmed up again. Tony watched – it was proof that, sometimes, simply being able to look at her made whatever else shit was going down, bearable. Then he remembered what she'd said.

"You checked the Mens' Room? Please tell me you didn't go in, Zee-vah?"

Ziva nodded. "I did. I had to be sure."

Tony frowned. "Andrews'll complain again."

Their habit of continuing arguments or holding impromptu meetings in the bathrooms – equally at home in either gender's territory - was a source of conflict with some of their co–workers.

"He did not see me." Ziva gave an indignant, dismissive toss of her head. "And, besides, he knows I am not shy in a fight."

Tony laughed outright. "Its 'fight shy of'- and, no, Zee-vah David, you don't".

She gave a small smile of triumph. It was the first time she'd heard him laugh in several days.

It was snowing in earnest now. Palmer was hurrying to get into the warmth; the snowflakes landing on his glasses, melting and forming frosty little rivers on the lenses. He thought he saw Tony and Ziva approaching from the opposite direction – arm in arm. That's how it appeared anyway; but, bundled against the chill, with his head bowed against the falling snow, it was impossible to be sure. In better weather he might have tried to find out. Today was too cold. Palmer dashed inside.

**October 2010**

"Do you think there'll be any trouble?"

Palmer may have been largely uninterested in the Tony and Ziva circus. However this visit could mean all sorts of excitement. He couldn't help the eager anticipation in his voice. He was yet to master the concept of a time and a place for everything; frequently choosing the wrong time, place and subject. Ducky was ready to start. Not wanting to profess an opinion, Ducky re-directed.

"Mr. Palmer, are either Director David or Officer Ben-Gidon present with us now?"

Palmer looked sheepish. "No, Dr Mallard." His enthusiasm for potential drama curbed.

"Well then, Mr. Palmer, shall we concern ourselves this afternoon, with the gentlemen who are?"


	6. The Girl

"He said he liked me."

Road Kill: S6

**June 2010**

Ziva was finishing up her drink, getting ready to make a move. FBI Special Agent Mackenzie Sinclair was stacking his empty sugar packs.

"Most of what we've got on Federov and his operations is on the stick - the rest is in those files." He gave an apologetic shrug, "he's been trouble since pre-civilization."

Her smile in return, made Sinclair, one of Fornell's boys, decide it had definitely been worth persuading her to meet at the café; the pleasant side to inter-agency dealings. As they walked, ready to go their separate ways, Sinclair touched her arm.

"Ziva, do you want to go out, outside work I mean, for a drink or dinner or something?"

This time the smile was just as sweet but revealed her answer. So he tried again, before she could say no. "It'd be nice to talk about something other than Russian mobsters, don't you think?"

She laughed and he knew she hadn't changed her mind. "It is very kind of you, Agent Sinclair," she started.

"Mac. Please. No strings just, you know, a date" – he didn't care he sounded a little desperate, he'd wanted to ask for several months.

"OK, Mac." She could see his disappointment. "I am flattered, truly, thank you but…."

Agent Sinclair gave her a direct look and a defeated smile, 'it's DiNozzo, isn't it?" - adding, mentally, the lucky son-of-a-bitch.

"No." Ziva was startled by an FBI man making the connection. Her denial was too quick. And she knew that Sinclair knew it was too quick. "It is just that…it is complicated." She gave a regretful sigh.

He nodded, "well, you know where to find me if it ever gets uncomplicated" and walked away.

It was a beautiful day and Ziva didn't rush back to the Navy Yard; this was Probie duty - she might as well enjoy it. She considered why she had rejected the FBI Agent. It was DiNozzo. There was no point in dating because none of those other guys were him. When she had first been assigned to NCIS, she'd criticized the phrase 'it's complicated' as a cowardly way of avoiding an uncomfortable truth. Now she found herself saying it often; to others and to herself. It was complicated. She and Tony had enough emotional baggage between them to fill a small container ship. Then there was Gibbs' Rule #12. "Never Date A Co-Worker." No-one was knew what would happen if you did; simply because no-one had tried it. As far as the team were aware, anyway. They all knew of the Gibbs and Director Shepard relationship – but not enough details to make an informed judgment. And none of them, not even Abby, were willing to ask Gibbs for clarification.

**February 2010**

Not even an assignment in Paris was straightforward. The hotel reservation was screwed up. If they had been regular partners, such an error would have caused a variety of reactions; irritation, indifference or, perhaps, embarrassment. It may even have been funny. For Tony and Ziva, something like sharing a room and chances were they could collect their witness wearing an F.F.L. on their faces. Earlier in their relationship, that wouldn't have been a problem. They both were the type to accept, sometimes, sex was just physical pleasure; to be enjoyed for itself with no strings; no ties. At this point, they were attached by an intangible bond. Whatever it was and whatever it meant was precious. No matter how great the sex, and Ziva was certain it would be exquisite, Rule #12 meant one night could jeopardize everything. The trouble was the permanent simmering temptation. It was 'Catch-22' territory. It was also ridiculous. They were in the City of Lovers only they weren't lovers - because it was complicated.

Ziva had argued and pleaded with the desk staff – she'd even tried bribing them. Eventually admitting defeat with a string of curses in various languages – none in French as a belated courtesy – it wasn't their fault. Tony had leant on the counter, trying very hard to appear suitably supportive instead of hugely entertained.

"You know, I think that guy speaks Italian. He looked kinda stunned when you called him a sniveling whoreson."

Ziva was irresistibly gorgeous when she got mad like this. Whoever made the booking, in D.C., was lucky to be currently in D.C. The clash over which one would sleep in the bed began as they left the desk, continued in the elevator, and was still going in the room.

"Tony, I am shorter. I can fit on the couch."

He was gazing out of the window at the view. "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should have to."

Tony was being chivalrous. Although incredibly sweet, was totally impractical as far as Ziva was concerned. "What you are suggesting makes no sense."

He turned around, looking for the T.V. remote. "Why does it have to make sense, Zee-vah?"

She was exasperated and that was frustrating because she wanted to be kind. "Ugh, you are infuriating."

Tony sat and started channel flicking. "If I keep annoying you, will you do that foot stamp deal again? Please say yes?"

Ziva stood and blocked the screen; hands on hips, refusing to be diverted. "Tony, you have spent hours cramped on a 'plane and you have to do the same again tomorrow. You will be so uncomfortable, please let me take the couch?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Think of Ms. Williams - you're kinda an acquired taste even when you're not over-tired. Now move." He waved for her to clear his line of sight.

She stayed put, thinking of a way to convince him.

"You're still there." Tony had found a movie, believing the sleeping arrangements settled.

Ziva walked over, pushed him forward so she could climb behind and lay down. "See? I can sleep here."

He glanced over. To underline her point, she stretched and flexed. "You do not have to be a gentleman."

Tony grinned; "really?"

Ziva sat up abruptly. She knew that look. It was the one that made her insides melt and left her hollow when nothing happened. Which meant it was a dangerous look for a shared room - with Gibbs on the other side of the Atlantic.

"This is work, Tony." She scrambled to her feet.

Tony grinned again. "Well yeah, Zee-vah, but it shouldn't be. You take the bed and I'll take the couch. It's that simple. No work involved." Ziva's reference to the job was just sufficient to drag him from thoughts of fucking her.

"That is not what I meant."

She would have head slapped him - except touching each other wouldn't improve the situation. House-keeping arrived with extra linens. The woman pointed at them and to the bed, grumbling with suggestive Gallic disbelief, as she handed the pile to Ziva – whose reply was sharp and irritated. Even Tony could guess the question. Why not just sleep together in the bed? The elephant in the room; throughout the debate neither of them suggested sharing the bed and they both knew the reason.

The evening was an anti-date. Ziva persisted with her claim to the couch until Tony surrendered – just to get her change the subject. They bickered through dinner and squabbled during the walk along the Seine to the hotel. Promptly correcting any assumptions they were a couple on a romantic get-a-way. Conveniently overlooking the reason everyone they met made that mistake. After a couple of hours, Tony was woken by a thud and yelp.

He rolled over, reaching for the lamp with a groggy "what the f..?"

Ziva was sat on the floor, entangled in sheets and blankets, aiming for the light. Squinting at him against the brightness, "I think I rolled. I fell down or off...out?"

The jet-lag, jolt into consciousness and adrenaline surge from a non-existent threat combined to make her a little confused.

Tony ran his hand over his face, half asleep. "Did you hurt yourself?"

She shook her head. Now he was amused. "Oh Jesus Zee-vah, at least put the gun down."

Ziva placed her weapon under the pillow with a contrite smile. Whilst she was re-arranging the bedding on the couch, Tony got up. He casually gathered her into his arms, walking back to the bed, muttering,

"'s fucking stupid….two adults can't just share a bed…"

He dropped her, unceremoniously, onto her side of the bed, "You. Sleep. Here," The least romantic way he could think of for handling the situation. And he deliberately walked around to the other side instead of climbing across her.

"Tony, what if someone asks?"

He was drifting. A state achieved only by steadfastly ignoring the reality of Ziva inches away from him. "We'll tell them you held a gun to my head, we flipped a coin, something…..Sleep."

She did sleep. She woke again a little later; a different bed, time-zone and unfamiliar city noise never helped anyone rest. Mostly it was because she discovered they were in the middle of the bed, bodies and limbs wrapped into and around each other. As she wriggled slightly, with a little frustrated sigh, she felt his arms instinctively tighten their hold. Ziva lay, achingly contemplating rebellion over resistance. Then she remembered her gun on the other side of the room; left when he'd picked her up. Ziva always slept armed; the same way some people can't sleep if the bedroom door is open just a crack or closed too much. Where most would consider it reckless to sleep with a loaded firearm, she considered it extremely negligent to do otherwise. She didn't get up to retrieve it. She went back to sleep. For the first night she could remember, Ziva chose to sleep defenseless.

When she stirred in the morning, Tony was already showered and dressed. He was sat on the edge of the bed, beside her, his fingers gently teasing at her curls - watching her wake up. He had brought her tea. Ziva sat up, leaning on her elbows, still sleepy and he flashed that charming, warm smile. The one that had always made her heart flip.

"Hey Ninja, we should head out soon."

She thought about the previous night and this morning. All of it should have felt awkward and strained or just strange. Instead it felt extraordinarily intimate, relaxed and familiar. Ziva wanted time to stop – to hold that feeling in perpetuity. She realized she had never wanted anyone with such craving. She realized she had never trusted anyone so absolutely in her life. And she realized she needed Tony with an all consuming intensity. Like becoming aware of one's breathing. He was ever-present and vital to her existence. It was complicated and terrifying and completely beyond her control. In Paris, Ziva realized she loved him.


	7. The Scientist

"Even Though, In Hindsight, It Is Starting To Make A Little Bit More Sense Now."

Reunion: S7

**October 2010**

Abby's lab., seemed chaotic – a whirlwind of frenzied activity and blaring music. Strangers to her world were often left wondering how any work was done, if the results were reliable and if, Abby, herself, wasn't the last un-medicated case of chronic ADHD on the planet. They were wrong on all three counts. What seemed like noisy, unfocused mayhem; was the dedicated, logical workings of a gifted scientist. The unorthodox soundtracks blocked out distraction for her to focus, the permanently 'switched-on' manner so she could complete the workload of three people in less time and her findings were accurate and based purely on rational principles.

"McGee, McGee." Abby, in all her Goth glory launched herself at him immediately. "I was hoping Gibbs would send you for the DNA analysis".

McGee looked worried "What's wrong Abby?" She pushed him away from the hug she'd smothered him with as soon as he walked in and cast a look towards the door.

"What? Nothing's wrong, McGee. Well, I still can't isolate that one trace from the scene, so that's wrong 'cause we need to identify it so we can …"

People soon learned with Abby that waiting for her to finish a sentence wasn't always practical. Sometimes, to move a conversation forward, it was best just to interrupt – her bubbly personality meant that she could shift from one topic to another in an endless stream of verbal consciousness.

"Happy to help, Abby, show me." McGee turned toward her workstation.

"No, _McGeeeee,_ that's not why. I've already widened the search criteria..."

McGee was puzzled. "Then what do you need me for?'

Abby gave him a beaming smile. "Oh Timmy, lots of things, it always great to see you, and when I need to hack a system or like when that Chechen guy…."

McGee gave up trying to work it out. "Abby." It wasn't quite a shout, just a loud exclamation of her name.

She mentally rewound. "Oh right, yes." Abby checked the doorway again, and began in a conspiratorial tone "I hear Daddy David's comin' to town. Tell me _everything_."

She pulled McGee, by the arm, around to the other side of her workstation. He made a face. "Aw, Abby, there's nothing to tell," complaint in his voice. This wasn't his favorite topic for discussion.

"Nonsense, McGee, there's always something to tell". She looked at him, trying to decide between firm interrogation and coaxing. "So, how much eye sex are they having?" She waited expectantly.

"Look, Abby, I really need that report and to get back… wait, did you just say eye sex? What…?" Abby made an exasperated wave with her hands.

"You know, when Tony and Ziva start staring at each other and, suddenly, it's like someone's sucked all the oxygen out of the room. And it feels like a gazillion degrees hotter than it was a second ago. And you feel like you shouldn't watch but you do 'cause you can't figure out why one of them hasn't gone blind yet 'cause it's so intense. And there's this little moment of relief when one of them looks away. Eye sex."

She finished with a pleased flourish as if she had just solved a very difficult case.

"Oh. Erhm. Well, none…. I guess. I don't know…" McGee startled, in equal parts by the idea he may have witnessed his co-workers having any kind of sex and her dramatic description, struggled to find a reply. "I haven't really been watching. And, anyway, I'm sure there's a Rule to cover 'eye sex' – probably an addendum, #12A or #12 .3 or something."

Abby squinted at him. "McGee, I was so counting on you," shaking her head with disapproval.

Abby was a very gregarious Goth. It didn't take her long to recognize chemistry between Tony and Ziva. She was baffled by the on-again-off- again nature of their relationship – unable to believe the lack of progression. For a while, she tried subtle match-making. Always the scientist, she experimented with various techniques: dropping hints, plying them with alcohol or, setting them up in various ways. Abby considered if it were possible to concoct a genuine 'love-potion' in her lab. She had even wondered about planting listening devices – rejecting it on practical rather than ethical grounds. They were her pet project. McGee was her accomplice - always unwilling and often unhelpful. It had been three months before Abby heard of Tony's drugged declaration in Somalia. Abby campaigned until she took a short-cut, on her way from lunch, through the delivery bay in Autopsy. She heard voices somewhere ahead of her. One voice belonged to Tony and he sounded angry; which was odd. Tony was very rarely mad. Although, when he did lose his temper, it was highly impressive. Of Italian descent, his was rational, unflinching rage – the kind that had kept generations of 'Godfathers' in business. The other fiery voice was Ziva's – nothing unusual there – except most people didn't engage when she was this irate, fearing bodily harm. Abby slowed her pace – eavesdropping sort of by accident had to be OK.

**April 2010**

The stairwell on the lowest level wasn't the place to have an argument. The two sides formed by the angles of the staircase gave an illusion of privacy. The passageways of less populated areas of the building were usually empty. Anyone coming down the stairs could be heard in advance. Still, it was, essentially, public space. Tony paced back and forth; clearly seething. Ziva leant against one of the walls knee bent, one foot up on the wall. Her arms were folded across her chest; her eyes fixed on the floor – as much a picture of stationary fury, as he was of one in motion. They were tracking a small band of terrorists of the home-grown variety. A routine police report had led to a car, at a disused factory. It contained plans, lists of targets, contacts – a treasure chest of information and evidence. It was also rigged with an IED. Everyone evacuated and waited for the bomb squad; Tony and Ziva were the first from the team to arrive. Impatient with inactivity, disguised as concern for lost time, she'd obstinately marched in to disarm the device herself.

"I still do not understand why you are so angry." She stated sulkily.

When Gibbs had arrived, he'd chewed them both out, the words still stinging. After the unhappy, silent drive to the Navy Yard, Ziva came down here to regain her composure, Tony followed and the smoldering dispute had erupted. Tony came to a halt and threw his hands out, slowly turning around.

"Seriously? Then let me try and explain it to you, _again_, in simple terms: a bomb, Ziva, a fucking bomb." The measure of how furious he was contained within her name – no slow, playful pronunciation like he took pleasure in just saying the word. "No. Wait. Let me be more specific; _another_ fucking bomb, Ziva."

She uncrossed her arms and her head snapped up. "Yes, it was a bomb. A very simple one; easily neutralized. Now we are ahead in our investigation," condescending, the implication he was an ungrateful idiot. "It did not detonate." She hissed.

"It could've." his stony response, walking toward her.

"It did not." She insisted.

"It could've." nearer.

"It did not." Spiteful triumph edging her voice as if the fact they were both still alive won the argument.

"It was an unnecessary risk and you know it." – his words a biting echo of Gibbs' earlier rebuke.

Silence:

Ziva raised an eyebrow. "Wasting time waiting for a team, when I am more than capable, Tony, was the unnecessary part." She was deceptively calm as she made the point.

That was part of the problem. Ziva was good and she knew it. She coolly took on the risks others daren't. Truth be told, in other situations, Tony found it highly attractive; her matter-of-fact attitude if all hell broke loose, or efficiently kicking the ass of guys twice her size. Pacing away from her, Tony rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, suddenly tired. Frustration the subject was even up for debate boiled.

"Look, they're called bomb techs., 'cause that's what they do - bombs, just bombs." His voice was caustic, dripping with over-exaggerated patience, rising in volume. "We're investigators. We investigate. That's what _we_ do. You wanna take a starring role in the fucking Hurt Locker for real? GO AHEAD. SIGN UP FOR THAT."

Silence:

They accepted dangers that came with the job – had to. Watching Ziva launch herself at any and all hazards, simply because she could; that was harder to handle. He knew why she did it. To prove she was worth something. She'd been taught to take any risks necessary to achieve the target. Total disregard for the costs: success meant she was valuable. The twin ideas of being loved just for herself, of being in love, frightened her. Emotions were a weakness for the soon-to-be-dead: she'd been taught to resist them. Or exploit them to manipulate others. And that was the other part of the problem. The fight wasn't about the bomb. It was about their 'not-a-relationship' relationship. He was angry because she'd needlessly put herself in harm's way – the thought of, perhaps, losing her again nearly unbearable. She was scared by the strength of his reaction – unable to rationalize it and, unlike the IED, disarm what that meant. Only neither of them could admit their reasons; handicapped by Rule #12 and ensnared by personal insecurities. It was like an insane game of chess.

"You are being ridiculous. It did not detonate." Icily restrained; stubbornly clinging to her point.

He rounded on her again, fuming. "Yeah, I'm ridiculous; nothing at all ridiculous about waltzing in with only a god-damned pocket-knife. You know those bomb techs., the ones you _wouldn't_ wait for, they have protective suits. Know why? 'Cause most people prefer live bodies, Ziva, whole, intact ones."

Ziva shifted her line of defense. "Really, Tony, and whose body are we talking about?"

He hated when she did this, almost slipping into operative mode as a means of deflection. Tactic one was diversion. Her tone was provocatively teasing now.

He stood in front of her. "Don't."

She tilted her head, playing innocent. "Don't what, Tony?" looking sideways up at him.

"Don't do the flirting thing." He watched her eyes, as she recalibrated the strategy. Another day, with another topic Tony would have taken the bait. "The whole page 23 in the Mossad Manual for Super-Agents routine, it _won't_ work." He was remorseless in his sarcasm, his expression one of being thoroughly pissed off.

Silence:

Tony walked away again; this wasn't done yet. Tactic two was flight. She pushed herself off the wall, with a contemptuous sigh.

"There is no point in continuing. You will not see reason."

Stalking past; close enough to imply she wasn't surrendering, merely ending a tiresome discussion. To Ziva's surprise, he swung round and grabbed her elbow; hauling her back against the wall. Tony felt her stiffen, coiling for a strike, but he was still standing which had to be considered progress of sorts.

"You didn't have to go in. You've nothing to prove." He tried a more gentle approach, attempting to defuse the confrontation.

Height-wise, he had at least a half foot to his advantage. Situated up close, his palms on the wall either side of her, Tony made a pretty effective obstacle. This was a small nod toward his self-preservation. Less room for her to move, making it more difficult if she chose to employ tactic three - fight - literally. She was cornered; the only physical options could inflict serious injury on Tony. Conflicted emotions churned in her mind.

Ziva was nearly rigid with tension and frustration; "you did not have to follow me in, Tony."

He shook his head, exasperated, antagonism back in his voice. "Yet _you_ knew I would. So you kinda decided to take that risk for both of us back there, didn't you?"

The word 'us' re-ignited her fury - the NCIS partnership 'us' or the other one; the one that unnerved her so much. Ziva shrugged insolently, tossing her head.

"Were you scared, Tony?" she began maliciously. "My experience with….."

That did it. Tony's control on his temper snapped again.

"Oh Christ, Ziva", cutting her off sharply, "is that what this is about - the David death wish?"

Scornful and sardonic; deadly cold anger leveling the accusation with laser-like precision. "There's an explosive device, or a fucking bullet with your name on it and you're gonna keep looking 'til it kills you? Just hate to break with the old family tradition that Eli David's kids _all_ die bloody, violent deaths."

It was an astonishingly vicious barb; raising the double ghosts of her siblings. Tony was calculating the likelihood of her pulling her gun. Instead he found himself catching Ziva's wrist just before the slap connected with his cheek. A half-hearted attempt; she was stunned by his words and shaking, with tears brimming. Sensing her wavering, Tony seized the break - before Ziva could refocus on lethal force.

"Hey, you died once already, remember?" he soothed softly into her ear. "All I'm asking is can we at least _try_ to skip the re-run?" No anger now; just tenderness tinged with a little relief.

Silence:

Abby was almost as shocked as Ziva. Briefly, she wondered if Ziva had killed Tony. Discounting it as unlikely - no thump of a body hitting the floor. She decided to risk a peek; the suspense too much. Tony had one hand on the wall propping himself up; the other was cradling Ziva's head; his thumb lightly stroking the nape of her neck. Ziva was resting the top of her forehead against his chest.

"I am sorry, Tony." The fierce Israeli was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt; allowing his touch to ease the turmoil.

"Me too, Zee-vah," he could sense her winding down.

"And you are right, I….." still looking at the floor.

"I know." Tony let slide what it was, exactly, she was admitting he was right about. And wished he could figure out a way to move past her defenses - without his having to risk triggering Armageddon every single time.

"It is just because…"

He lifted her chin up, "_I know_."

**October 2010**

After that encounter, Abby had completely backed off meddling with Tony and Ziva – it would be like experimenting with Dark Matter or something equally unpredictable. The impending visit of Ziva's father was an intriguing development, though.

"Abby," McGee warned, "this won't be good. You're just being a romantic."

An alert beeped, indicating one of her tests was complete.

"Am not, McGee" sounding insulted by the suggestion. "I am a scientist. I observe, I test evidence, I seek proof." She moved back in front of her equipment, scanning the screens. "And this could be the catalyst."

McGee walked over to stand at her side. "You found something?"

Abby gave him a withering look. "I meant Daddy David."

McGee picked up his report. "Well, catalyst or not, Abby, Rule #12 holds. It should not, cannot, and will not happen, so you'll be disappointed".

Abby fixed him with a playful glare, "oh ye of little faith, Timothy McGee. Rule #12 has no power here." She declared, typing rapidly. She paused to take a sip of her drink. "Ugh" disgusted when she realized it was empty. "We're talking about a force of nature, like one of the laws of Physics or a principle of the Universe. Rule #12 cannot defeat it. Not even Gibbs can …. GIBBS."

No-one knew if Abby had a built-in Gibbs-o-meter or if evidence just submitted to his will - psychically informing him when processing was complete. However the system worked, Gibbs had an unfailing ability to visit the lab., when Abby had a result and Abby would always know the precise moment of his entrance. Engrossed in her plotting, it had slipped her mind.

"Not even Gibbs, can what, Abbs?" Busted – recovering from her surprise, with impressive speed, Abby hit some more buttons on the keyboard.

"Not even Gibbs can guess what I found on this bad boy."

It was a good attempt at a save – except Gibbs didn't like to guess. McGee opted to leave Abby with any explanations. She stood a better chance of receiving mercy than he did.

"I'll get this report upstairs, Boss." He made his escape.

"What'd ya got, Abbs?"

She gave Gibbs a jubilant smile. "Come with me and let me show you," theatrically indicating he should follow her to a complex set-up laid out on the table.

He glanced at her computer monitors, noticing the image on one; exotic frogs and other reptiles artistically rendered to make a strange collage, some staring eyeball to eyeball. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Oh, that's for a lecture on rare toxins." Only Abby could happily relish the prospect of undetectable methods to poison people. "Aren't they weird and cute?" Isn't that like the coolest picture?"

Gibbs handed her a Caf-Pow refill and, completely dead-pan, asked "they havin' eye sex, Abbs?"

This time Abby had the good grace to look shame-faced – totally busted.


	8. The McFriend

"Individual Beds; Get Them Out Of Individual Beds. I Was Confused."

Jack Knife: S7

**October 2010**

McGee loved his job. He had guaranteed access to all the latest, neatest technical gadgets he could dream of. He had guaranteed access to fantastic computers and resources. And he had significant authority to use all of these toys to their fullest advantage – he could hack, track and trace virtually anything. It was geek heaven. What made it even better; he was using his brilliance and all of the gizmos for a noble purpose – stopping the bad guys, protecting and helping the good. McGee respected and liked his boss, Ducky was interesting, Abby was truly delightful and he was very fond of her. Even Palmer was OK. And then there were Tony and Ziva. McGee had withstood the tempest for five years. It was a mixed experience. By turns: entertaining, plain annoying, a little alarming and, occasionally, something else altogether.

McGee had liked Ziva from the beginning. She had intimidated him but he liked her. Of an even tempered, friendly nature - willing to give people a chance - McGee had no trouble accepting the Mossad Liaison Officer. He knew she had a dark side and knew it would probably terrify him. He was impressed with her capabilities. He also found Ziva clever, sweet and funny. They had become friends. For a long time, he had been of the opinion the H.R. Dept. should formulate a separate color scale for Tony and Ziva's interactions: all stages red. There was a permanent current between them; sometimes humming in the background, at others sparking with the force an electric arc. Put Tony and Ziva in a room together, any room - even a stifling, filthy cell in Somalia – sooner or later the atmosphere would charge. Red Stage I would be a light, bright shade. It had provided excellent source material for two characters in his books. 'Write what you know' is the instruction given to would-be authors. McGee had gleefully written the playful quarrels and suggestive sparring. This was entertainment – not least because Ziva was equal to playing Tony at his own game.

**March 2010**

It was raining; a torrential rain ruining their crime scene. It put Gibbs in a foul mood; made progress slow and frustrating. Ziva had been canvassing witnesses and was drenched. As the team scrambled to find something to pacify Gibbs, she hadn't yet changed out of her wet clothes. Tony derived immense enjoyment from her bedraggled appearance; he had set her the task.

"Thought Ninjas were supposed to be able to dodge raindrops? Are you really just a Probie Ninja, too?"

Ziva gave him a disgusted look but didn't rise. The Marine Private's I.D. photo stared back at them from the plasma. Elements to the case didn't fit.

"Hey, Zee-vah, don't stand so close - water and electricity." Tony was still enjoying her discomfort; baiting her for a reaction.

"What do we know?"

Tony and McGee were staring back at the screen, hoping to find answers for Gibbs before Gibbs asked.

"We know he was three months back from his tour." McGee had possession of the clicker.

"We know he was unpopular," Tony paused, "unpopular enough to get dead?"

McGee went to his desk, "'Phone records - see who he's been calling. We know he was single."

Tony couldn't resist, "that would come under unpopular, McLonelyHeart."

Ziva was squeezing water out of her hair into a trash can.

"We know the last person to see him." She flipped her head, showering Tony with a spray of droplets,

"Sorry Tony," without a hint of apology in her voice, "the woman at the gym…Lizzie Randolph."

McGee looked up from his computer and caught the look Tony was giving Ziva. The dead Marine temporarily forgotten; Ziva had fired the opening salvo in her retaliation. The charge started to buzz a little louder.

"We know what Zee-vah would look like in a wet t-shirt contest."

He sauntered closer. McGee rolled his eyes. Tony's grin conveyed delight at finally achieving a response - and revealed unashamed approval of the look created by the damp, clinging materials.

"Ever mud-wrestle?"

Ziva timed her revenge perfectly. She picked up her bag and purposely slithered through the gap between Tony and the desk. Brushing past him with a sultry glance.

"Would I be wrestling in a bikini, Tony, or perhaps, nothing?"

The words and close contact leaving Tony briefly speechless.

"I am going to change." She tossed her head, sending another little shower in his direction and nonchalantly walked away.

A very hard head slap connected with Tony's skull; Ziva had seen Gibbs' approach and set him up.

"Close your mouth, DiNozzo."

Their boss' mood hadn't improved. He wasn't pleased by the discovery of his senior field agent, apparently, standing around doing nothing. "That mud connected to identifying tire tracks?"

Tony was suitably chastened, "on it, Boss."

Annoyance from the relationship had two sources. One was minor; all the office speculation. People were forever sidling up to McGee, looking for 'insider information'. McGee had, of course, taken all four bets anonymously: no, yes, no and no; approaching the subject like a mathematical formula – with quiet confidence in his chances. Tony, on occasion, worried him on that first one, with vague hints about the married assassins' mission. Still McGee was virtually certain that was Tony just being Tony. The senior field agent was like an older brother - sometimes like the older brother McGee knew he'd never wanted. However, despite all the teasing, the nicknames, he and Tony had worked together for a long time. They trusted and respected the other's individual skills. They were, most of the time, good friends. Red Stage II would be a stronger, primary color. At times Tony and Ziva conducted a disagreement via a conversation within a conversation. It could be annoying because McGee often found himself in the middle – ignorant to half the story. The charge in the air would crackle with ill-defined tension.

**November 2009**

A bright, crisp autumn day: the sort of day when it feels good to be alive. Although, it is possible to spoil that feeling; a Naval Lieutenant had come home to surprise her husband. She had surprised him and the guy he was sleeping with; it ended with the lover shot dead, the husband slightly wounded and the naval officer under arrest. There was nothing to investigate; just versions to match, details to verify - needlessly ruined lives to reflect upon. Additionally, Mossad had been in touch, wanting Ziva's input on a review of a past operation: today was the day. McGee comprehended that much as the cause of increased strife between Tony and Ziva.

"Well, I guess she didn't ask, or he didn't tell." Tony arrived back at the van, where Ziva and McGee were waiting for Gibbs' next set of orders.

McGee gave him an appalled look. "Tony, I can't believe you just said that."

Tony grinned. "You know, neither can I."

He had been taking a preliminary statement from the husband; one of his great talents – lulling people into spilling their stories. Never suspecting it was an interrogation as Tony exuded charm and understanding.

"Do you think she knew?" McGee was trying to make sense of the convoluted scenario that had unfolded.

"She might have, on some level, perhaps." Ziva answered thoughtfully.

"If you know a person, you know if they're hiding something." Tony seemed innocuously on topic – except the remark was targeted solely at Ziva.

"Not always. Sometimes it is a mistake." And she was irritated by the comment.

"Sometimes it isn't." Aggression emerged in Tony's voice. "Secrets always cause trouble," he continued, staring at her.

"So does suspicion," she sharply dismissed the statement.

Their sparring took on a more acrimonious tone.

"By suspicion, you mean lack of trust?" Tony struck back.

At this point, McGee was like a spectator to some peculiar sport; witnessing the sparks fly.

"Sometimes people cannot avoid secrets." Ziva's irritation was teetering on anger.

"Sometimes people choose to keep secrets." Tony persisted in spite of her growing annoyance.

"Sometimes people believe a secret significant when it is not."

In an effort to change the subject, McGee unwittingly pushed the bickering up a level. "So who is Gavriel Levi, Ziva?"

Tony took a step toward her, "yeah, Zee-vah, who _is_ Gavriel Levi?" His smile was pleasant, only serving to emphasize the mocking tone.

"He is the Mossad Liaison Officer who is coming to the Navy Yard today."

McGee realized his error and decided against playing referee as Ziva moved toward Tony.

"You said that already. Why does he want to see you?" Tony was irked by her evasion.

If Tony and Ziva had eye sex, then they also had eye brutality. Tony's eyes would darken and Ziva's would flash as they stared each other down during arguments.

"Why does it matter, Tony?" she was disdainful.

"Depends, Zee-vah, on why you won't tell me."

Now McGee might as well not be present at all; they were totally focused on each other.

"He was my contact in Istanbul."

The rescue from Somalia was relatively recent. Her former life, links to Mossad and the events leading to her captivity were sensitive areas – the underlying cause of numerous disputes between them.

"You said that already, too."

Ziva's severely limited patience had worn thin. "What else would you like to know?" She snapped.

"Would that be contact as in the normal meaning of the word, Zee-vah? Or Mossad's more broadminded definition: someone to sleep with?" Tony's Alpha Male streak was clearly evident in the sarcasm. He was jealous.

"Like your definition of an undercover assignment, Tony?" Ziva's waspish retort completed the cycle of re-opening past wounds.

"McGee, find Ducky." Gibbs' command provided welcome respite for McGee.

Bets one and two were secure. Quarrels of this nature confirmed for McGee that Tony and Ziva hadn't slept together. And it was foregone conclusion they would, at least once. They were standing toe-to-toe; eyes locked and bodies so close they were virtually sharing air. It was an exhausting battle of wills – which neither would ever win. Tony and Ziva were a perfect counterpoint to each other. The advantage merely ebbed and flowed between them – depending on circumstances. Although McGee had noticed that Stages II & III had become more frequent in recent months. Unsatisfied sexual attraction and prohibited emotions resulting in these types of flashpoint; the only outlets to release pressure.

McGee's alarm manifested itself at Red Stage III. A red so dark, it would be almost black. It was how he knew he was correct in wager three. Sometimes Tony and Ziva were so angry with each other, that if physical violence were to occur, it would be then. Not if Tony made a pass at Ziva. The atmosphere was always oppressive beneath the veneer of professionalism. The charge would buzz with unpleasant insistence. He imagined it as similar to having a super-cell thunderstorm slowly form directly overhead - waiting for the lightning to strike. On such occasions, if he could, McGee re-located. Otherwise he kept his head down and his mouth shut. He had never witnessed the full-blown fights which obviously exploded from this level of tension – just the build-up and aftermath. The battles were fought elsewhere; bathrooms, the car, other places.

**May 2010**

The conflict had been fermenting for several days. Tony had – well, McGee didn't quite grasp what he had done – Tony had become infatuated with a woman he didn't know. Ziva had been disturbed by his behavior; threatened by Tony's distance. As Tony became more fixated, Ziva became more unpredictable. McGee was happy when the case was finished. His relief was premature. Ziva's mood didn't improve which seemed to aggravate Tony. They barely spoke to each other. When they did, Ziva was bitchy and Tony was antagonized by her attitude. Then the team became embroiled in a fire-fight with members of a Mexican drug cartel. How all the pieces fitted together was unclear; there was a strange connection to Gibbs.

They had been caught, outgunned, in a warehouse. Walking into some kind of trap - an ex-gang member Marine used as bait. Help was on its way but these guys were armed with serious weaponry and there seemed to be a lot of them. McGee was with Gibbs. This was his least favorite aspect of the job. He was a reasonable shot, competent when required. He was capable in a physical fight. In all honesty, neither was in his comfort zone. McGee much preferred to employ his geekery and technological expertise.

"Gotta a guitar-case?" Tony and Ziva were pinned down behind some machinery and a wide support pillar. "El mariachi?"

She looked blankly at him.

"Never mind."

Ziva peered around the pillar, assessing their prospects. A hail of bullets peppered the area. Tony grabbed her collar and yanked her back.

"Goddamn it Zee-vah…." He started to remonstrate, and then noticed she was putting in a fresh clip, she had drawn her back-up. Most significantly, he recognized her expression.

"Where, the fuck, do you think you're going?" He nodded toward her guns.

"Cover me." And she darted away before his foreboding could translate into prevention.

The wail of sirens was much louder, nearer. Their opponents were shouting instructions to each other. The gunfire intensified. Ziva re-appeared. She had worked her way to the side, a little behind one of the Mexicans' positions. In a breathtakingly reckless tactic, she stood up.

"Hola chicos. Por aquí."

Ziva fired both guns simultaneously – at an obtuse angle to each other - hitting two men situated on upper gantries. Their elevated positions had been causing the team the most trouble. The diversion allowed Gibbs and McGee to renew their attack, moving forward. It meant Ziva was fleetingly exposed as everyone's reactions caught up. Tony took out the gunmen posing the greatest threat to her as she dived for cover. A crucial factor to the plan; one she had relied upon with absolute certainty. The cavalry barged in and Ziva met Tony's furious look with a defiant, self-satisfied gaze.

The mood in the bull-pen was intolerable. Ziva placed her completed incident report on Gibbs' desk.

"You're done? Guess there's not much to say about your deranged little stunt." Tony slammed a drawer shut.

Ziva faced him, 'it is a perfectly rational military strategy to out-maneuver your enemy, Tony." She was arrogant in her justification after the fact.

McGee steeled himself; a cloud-to-ground strike was imminent.

"You're not in the fucking army anymore." His voice was quiet though the anger was unmistakable.

The storm was still gathering. Ziva smiled patronizingly, returning to her desk.

"DiNozzo, check out Galindez's place. Find the connection." Gibbs' arrival set the altercation on pause. He cast a knowing glance between the two of them. "Ziva, go with him."

Tony slid his chair back and stood up. Ziva was already on her way to the elevator.

"Shit." Tony's face was grim – no trace of the charming playboy.

McGee sighed. It would be resolved when they returned. The real reason behind the argument, how ugly it had to get and how peace was restored would remain a mystery to him. McGee was very grateful for that.

The Somalia op. had been a revelation – in more ways than one. McGee would never forget the look in Tony's eyes when Gibbs had announced the Damocles' loss. All of the team had been shocked in their own way - his friend's expression, though, was as if Gibbs' had inflicted actual, physical pain on Tony. Second: the charged mood which re-emerged the instant Tony and Ziva came face-to-face. McGee couldn't see them but he definitely felt the reaction. It filled the room - the guards outside probably felt it. Third: Tony's confession to Ziva. McGee had an excellent, extensive grasp of chemistry. More than enough to know there is no such thing as truth serum. Certain drug combinations can loosen inhibitions; affect the brain's ability to filter and control speech. Not force someone to tell the truth and, by the same reasoning, not force them to conjure up something with no basis in truth – especially under those circumstances. There was only one logical conclusion.

Finally, there was the flight back. Red Stage the-only-one-that-really-matters would be a soft, deep shade – subtly glowing hot. McGee suspected there were more moments colored by this than the one or two he had witnessed. Also, the return journey was why he was confident in his bet of 'No, Gibbs will not kill them both if they do'. McGee knew his boss had observed what he had. He knew his boss cared about his team and he knew his boss couldn't help but be affected. McGee knew because none of them ever referred to the 'plane ride – it remained an anonymous little bubble of time.

**September 2009**

After Gibbs had carried Ziva aboard, he settled her in a jump seat – padding the area to make it more comfortable. She was subdued - noise or sudden movement made her jumpy and apprehensive. The medical team had dosed Ziva with a mild sedative, to help her endure the long, loud journey ahead of them. Gibbs sat beside her. He offered his hand; allowing her to choose whether she held it as the aircraft roared airborne. Tony sat opposite – drained. Traces of Saleem's concoction of god-alone-knows-what were in his system; still muddying his thought process. He desperately wanted sleep – prevented by the irrational notion that only sheer force of will would keep Ziva from disappearing. That if he closed his eyes, he would awaken to shattering loss all over again. As the aircraft reached cruising altitude, Gibbs motioned for Tony to switch places with him – aware of his Senior Agent's disquiet. Where it had been searingly hot on the tarmac, it was freezing now and Gibbs tucked her under blankets. She was huddled in a ball. Ziva twitched and muttered - it was impossible to tell if she were asleep, awake or trapped in some hellish twilight. They flew into rough weather and turbulence. Tony leaned over to steady her from the jolting. She was startled, her body going rigid; bewildered, struggling and panicked. Gibbs leapt to his feet. Fuzzy consciousness and recognition regained control in Ziva's mind. And she crawled onto Tony's lap. He braced one leg against the cargo pallets, stretched out the other one and wrapped his arms around her as he succumbed to sleep. Occasionally, Tony shifted her weight and adjusted his position for the sake of comfort. She was alert at times but remained silently nestled against him. When she slept, it was no longer restless and agitated. Ziva traveled most of the 7,000 miles home held by Tony. The transport made a brief stop-over at Ramstein. Gibbs and McGee took advantage of the opportunity to stretch, get some coffee;

"Boss, should we wake….?"

Gibbs shook his head, cutting short the question, "Let them be, Tim."

**October 2010**

On reflection, McGee often thought it was an action any one of them could have performed; Gibbs, Tony or, even, himself. Comforting someone who is distressed – someone you care about - simple human compassion. However, when Tony and Ziva fell asleep together, McGee was left with the feeling he was an intruder, trespassing upon some intensely private moment. He envied them. Not the tempestuous, conflicted nature of their relationship – that was a wearing enough experience for the bystanders. He envied the bond between two people; the level and strength of their empathy and emotions. Tony and Ziva shared something very special. The knowledge caused McGee worry. Rule #12 was an insurmountable barrier. Their love affair - because that's what it was, even if no-one named it as such - was doomed to exist in the realm of 'if only'.


	9. The Guy

"I Would Never Date A Co-worker, Boss. Trust me. I mean: why would you even….?"

Semper Fidelis: S6

**October 2010**

Tony had an excellent instinct for when his boss was antsy. And he knew something was up. It wasn't case-related. There was no increase in MTAC activities. Gibbs had met with Vance a couple of times, one of those clearly hadn't gone well. An unknown was bugging Gibbs; he was definitely cranky-er. Ziva and McGee had left for the evening. Tony elected to hang around.

"Everything OK, Boss?" It was worth a try anyway.

"Call it a day, DiNozzo." Gibbs scrutinized him; trying to make a decision, "bring Bourbon."

Over the years, many people had appeared, uninvited, in Gibbs' house for a variety of reasons – team members, old friends, hopeful women, the SecNav. Even virtual strangers connected only by a case. He never locked his doors and everyone knew he'd be in the basement working on his boats. It was ironic given Gibbs' pleasure in those hours was the solitude: a chance to unwind and clear his mind. Yet it was that neutral atmosphere which drew the stream of visitors. Maybe do a little sanding; maybe have a drink or maybe both. And to answer the standard inquiry: "what's on your mind?" It was a sort of confessional, therapist's couch and comfort zone all rolled into one.

For a short time, after Ziva had rejoined Mossad, Tony had migrated to Gibbs' basement every couple of weeks or so. He'd just show up: wrestling with guilt and regret. His mind replaying the events that led to Ziva's decision to leave the team.

"She thought I should have shot him in the leg, Boss." Second-guessing his actions, "it was all just so damn fast."

Gibbs pausing in his work, "she could've; she's a better shot 'n you."

The pattern continued like that. Tony talking as Gibbs listened – throwing out the odd comment to give a different perspective. It was another element common to all basement consultations. Gibbs barely ever said anything, yet the visitor always left with the sense they'd found the answer, good or bad, to whatever was 'on their minds'. Once the report of the Damocles' sinking had been confirmed, Tony didn't visit Gibbs' basement. An occasional problem solving session over a drink was one thing; dealing with the whole 'sunk with no survivors' news was something else. Drowning your sorrows is the polite term for it. Getting totally shit-faced drunk to numb the excruciating pain was more accurate. In those first nights, that's what Tony did; all he could do - just to ease the hurt for a little while. He had lost her; not left her in Israel.

To be summoned meant Gibbs had 'something' on _his_ mind. Tony took a seat, looking at the wooden skeleton in the basement.

"New boat Boss?" Gibbs was measuring.

"Yeah." He stopped, snapped the seal on the Bourbon and poured a generous amount into a 4 oz. Mason jar – wordlessly handing it to his senior agent. Gibbs returned to his work. He'd spent the earlier part of the evening considering how best to tackle DiNozzo. Before opening the can of worms, he'd decided to do a little preliminary digging – test Ducky's theory.

"How's Ziva doing?"

Tony was puzzled. "Well, you know, she's the most over-qualified Probie ever." He laughed. "And we get to make her do all the skuzzy crap."

Gibbs marked some points on his piece of wood. "Problems if she's stressed - signs of Somalia?"

Tony tensed. No doubt Psych. Services were bitching to Vance; she was too well-trained to play nicely with them.

"She seems OK to me." That wasn't entirely true. Although, given everything – and Tony was certain he didn't know the half of it – she _was_ fine. Tony looked at Gibbs.

"She's solid, Boss." That was true, always true. Ziva had an almost preternatural capacity to focus and operate, regardless. Now Tony was worried; Gibbs knew this stuff.

"There isn't a problem. Seriously, the team's working fine."

Tony restricted his response to the minimum. Gibbs smiled; DiNozzo, as ever, was trying to protect her.

"Any idea on how she'd cope with a little emotional stress?"

Tony hedged, "not really." Absolutely untrue; but this conversation was disturbing. Trained by Gibbs, Tony acted like Gibbs would; non-committal until he'd figured it out.

"What's going on, Boss?"

Gibbs felt a twinge of sympathy for Tony; despite his carefully detached answers, the concern was so evident in his voice. Gibbs picked up the piece of wood, walking over to the frame of the sail-boat taking shape under his skill.

"Eli David's gonna be in Washington".

Tony, wondering where the line of questioning was headed, was unprepared for that. He slumped back in his chair "fuck" – half to himself. Adding quickly, "does Ziva know?"

Gibbs admired the attempted pretence. He looked over the boat, at Tony, "not yet. We got protection duty."

Tony ran his fingers through his hair, "Oh fuck" – capitalize, bold italics, double underline that one and he knew it still wasn't an adequate expression for his reaction.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs reprimanded, "can't you say anything else, maybe something useful?"

Tony took a drink, trying to concentrate. "Sorry, Boss, when?"

Gibbs sighed; the bad news wasn't done yet. "Next month. Malachi Ben-Gidon's comin' to the party."

Tony instinctively started to form that word. A glance at Gibbs' face stopped him: "Oh come on," – holding his hands out in a disbelieving appeal, "some kinda world's greatest bastards' convention in town?"

Gibbs laughed at the typical DiNozzo summary. Eli David was one too many for Tony. Eli David and the sorry son-of-a-bitch who had let Ziva walk, alone, into Saleem's camp. Who had murdered an ex-Marine, and tried to frame her – all on Daddy's orders - was truly excessive. Gibbs raised his jar, endorsing the opinion on Tony's face.

"Suggestions on telling her?"

So not good; Gibbs was asking him how to handle an emotionally charged Ziva. Worse, Tony was beginning to suspect it wasn't his advice as Senior Agent being sought. If he got this wrong, his immediate future would be at sea.

"Well?" Gibbs broke into the train of thought.

"Spring it on her." Tony announced confidently. This time Gibbs was surprised, he raised his eyebrows. Tony gave a wry smile of understanding. "OK, stand at a safe distance and spring it on her."

Gibbs half smiled but didn't say anything. Tony took a big drink.

"Let her get mad first and then…." he explained, tailing off. He was reluctant to admit 'then' meant he knew she'd be vulnerable. That he'd be there to fix her and Ziva would let him - in their own crazy way.

"Remember when we brought her home, that medic guy?"

Gibbs nodded.

**September 2009**

The tarmac was hot, dry and dusty. The sun wasn't shining, more like targeting them with an unforgiving stare. From Somalia, the group had transferred to a military base in the UAE. Gibbs, impatient to get out and get them home, insisted on only the briefest of medicals for McGee, Tony and Ziva; to ensure they, mostly her, were fit for travel. Now they were standing waiting to board an USAF transport plane. A medic bundled Ziva from their vehicle, into a wheelchair - for the short distance to the aircraft.

"No. I can walk," said so very quietly, disengaged.

"Sorry Ma'am." The orderly placed his hand on her shoulder to prevent her standing.

It was maybe half speed, it lacked a little in co-ordination but Ziva found the pressure point with unerring accuracy and applied force. The medic squealed, releasing his grip.

"I will walk."

In true dysfunctional team style, the potential 'Hallmark' moment brought to an abrupt halt by Gibbs picking her up and carrying her aboard.

**October 2010**

"Get her to tap that instinct," unable to suppress the affectionate grin "and then duck."

Gibbs walked over to the workbench. "And you?"

Tony gave a short derisory laugh. "Well, let's just say I'm pretty certain Director David won't have forgiven me for killing his favorite psychopath."

There was a little too much animosity in his voice. His mind flashed back to Tel Aviv; his first, last and only contact with Ziva's father. Tony could guarantee he wouldn't be invited for cocktails to hear cute reminiscences about when Ziva was just a little Ninja.

"Not what I meant, DiNozzo. Do I need to bench you?"

Again, Tony was caught off guard. He shrugged, carelessly, "don't worry, Boss. I'm good."

Gibbs appeared busy with his woodwork for a few minutes. Tony finished his drink, hoping the interview was finished. And that he hadn't screwed up. Unfortunately, Gibbs wasn't done.

"You gonna tell her you knew before she did?"

Tony hesitated as he considered it, "um, yeah, at some point."

Gibbs looked, questioningly. Tony tensed again.

"For a.….It's a trust thing, I guess."

He wanted it to seem job-related - like a partnership issue. Gibbs remained silent.

"She's not good with….if she finds I've…. This might upset her."

It was cleverly done. His boss had only asked one additional question, yet Tony was explaining and doing it badly. Gibbs shot another quizzical glance in his direction.

"Who knew cold-blooded assassins were so high-strung?" Tony rolled his eyes - trying to sound casual, joking.

Gibbs was carefully selecting the next tool needed for this part of his boat. He didn't look up.

"That's only part of her now." Quietly noting, "you know that; probably better than anyone." This wasn't a question. It was a declaration. The firm way it was said indicating denial wasn't an option either. Too late, Tony realized Gibbs had smoothly steered the conversation around to just how well he knew Ziva.

Tony stood. He didn't really want another drink; he wanted to leave, right now. The mechanics of pouring one would buy a little time to think. He could see a lifetime as Agent Afloat, aboard the Antarctic patrols, looming on the horizon. It would be smart to prevent Gibbs jumping to any further conclusions, he cleared his throat.

"Um, Boss, we didn't…..uh."

This was worse than when he was seventeen, talking to Katie Torrington's father; sat in old man Torrington's luxurious study. Persuading him to let Tony take his daughter to a charity fundraiser in the city; that he was interested in the cause and his intentions were honorable - which he wasn't and they weren't. Somehow, here in Gibbs' spartan basement, discussing himself and Ziva was far more intimidating; not just because of the potential career-ending ramifications.

"We, um, we haven't …..I mean, we're not …..."

Gibbs was enjoying Tony's stumbling, nervous testimony that he and Ziva weren't sleeping together. Despite accepting 'yet' was the pertinent word missing from his senior agent's statement – time enough to worry about that once they were. Gibbs bent over his work to hide the amused smile.

"Figured out why you dragged us all to Somalia, DiNozzo?" He interrupted and pinned Tony with one of his infamous stares.

Tony was leaning against the wall, one hand holding the Mason jar to his chest, spinning a small wrench between the thumb and forefinger of the other. He knew why. He'd even said it: 'couldn't live without you, I guess.' Only there was no guessing involved; he couldn't. The commitment-phobic, universally acknowledged one-night-stand specialist was hopelessly, helplessly in love with Gibbs' Probationary Agent. He wanted to be able to cherish and protect her. He wanted Ziva so badly it was a permanent ache. It wasn't just sexual. Although, he knew control there was strained way beyond his breaking point. It was far more than unfulfilled desire for a beautiful woman. Ziva haunted his dreams, waking and sleeping; he longed to make those dreams real. He wanted to inhabit her soul, the way she inhabited his. Some of this internal battle was reflected on the younger man's face as he struggled to articulate his feelings for Ziva – without getting them both fired. Gibbs took pity, easing the interrogation. He had his answers anyway.

"She worth it?' was all he asked, calmly, with an unreadable look in those blue eyes.

Tony felt oddly relieved, as if he'd just solved a long-standing puzzle. He met Gibbs' gaze without flinching; "She's priceless."


	10. The Consequences

"OK. Tried, Couldn't."

Truth or Consequences: S7

Tony hesitated before buzzing her apartment. He didn't want a fight and yet, in all probability, that's where the evening would end up. Tony had spent an hour debating the best course of action. If he 'phoned she might not answer; though a call was unlikely to degenerate into conflict. If he went to see her; physical presence was tougher to ignore. On the other hand, it was more likely to provoke an argument. Gibbs had told Ziva about her father earlier that day. Tony noted, with satisfaction, the boss had taken his advice and ambushed her with the news. Eli was due in two days. Unfortunately, the look she gave Tony as she left the office spoke volumes. Not for the first time, he was grateful no-one had figured out a way to fit weapons into eyes. He was certain Ziva would be equipped with the latest version and he would have been dead years ago.

"You knew." Not a question; an angry accusing fact greeted him as she opened the door.

"Yeah." He leaned against the door- jamb.

"You knew and you did not tell me." Ziva repeated the charge with added venom.

"Well, now you know too." Tony remained neutral; avoiding the attempt at escalation. "Mind if I come in?" Not waiting for permission, he stepped through the doorway.

"Why did you not tell me?" She blocked his path in her hallway; temper bristling.

Tony sighed, "'cause it was Gibbs who told me, Zee-vah." That surprised her. "Look, do we really have to do this?" No need to articulate 'this', she knew he meant argue. He was calm, hoping she would respond in kind – or with her equivalent anyway.

"Why would he tell you first?" Ziva was thrown by Gibbs' involvement - her voice revealing confusion.

She turned, walking to her living room and Tony followed. Now was not the time to explain why Gibbs had told him first. Nor what he'd said to Gibbs. Fortunately, Ziva had provided him with the perfect deflection. Laid out on a table were her beloved Sig., her back-up, her second back-up, her other back-up and four knives. Her sniper rifle completed the arsenal.

"Christ, Zee-vah, they're not gonna let you assassinate Eli." He cocked an eyebrow, cautiously teasing.

She was clearly rattled, though not incandescent with rage; a positive development. "Cleaning them calms my mind an..."

The ghost of a grin formed on Tony's face as he finished her sentence, "….and forces you to stay focused. I know."

Ziva smiled because he'd remembered; meeting Tony's eyes for the first time since his arrival. "What are you doing here?" The first query she'd made without hostility.

"To take you to a movie," she wasn't expecting that answer. "Bullitt - Steve McQueen. It's a classic and a special screening." This was a little disingenuous. Tony was there because he wanted to check on her. And the invite was on an impulse. Ziva stood in the middle of the room, uncertain.

"Come to a movie with me," the charming smile and beguiling persuasion irresistible. "You'll like it. He drives like you."

As Tony waited for her to change, it suddenly occurred to him it was weirdly like a date. When Ziva re-appeared with her hair down, in heeled, knee-length suede boots, a short skirt, and a semi-transparent top only made decent by a jacket, he wished the thought hadn't occurred to him. Tony certainly questioned the wisdom of his plan to divert Ziva from brooding over her father. At this rate he would be the one distracted. The evening became more like a date when Tony got the car door for her – and Ziva didn't break his fingers for it. After the movie they decided on a couple of drinks and a late-night snack. The minor squabbles not detracting from the idea it could be a date. Although neither of them voiced the suggestion. The perception increased when Tony took Ziva's hand as they crossed a street - she didn't let go on the other side. It was so much like a date that he walked her to the entrance of her building. A superfluous gesture really - Ziva was not an obvious candidate for victim of late-night assault. There was a brief moment of awkwardness as they stared at each other. Suspended in the moment after friendship: yet before something else. And then Tony leaned in and kissed her; tentatively at first - unsure of her reaction. Since Gibbs didn't erupt from the sidewalk - brandishing Rule #12 - and Ziva's mouth opened with a soft little moan, Tony figured they were OK so far.

They kissed in the lobby of her building. They kissed all the way up to her apartment. Tony was taking his time, simply enjoying kissing her – five years worth of bottled physical desire bubbling over. They kissed in the hallway outside her door. The kisses were more demanding, leaving Ziva dizzy and vague. She had unbuttoned his shirt and was working on his belt. His hand was between her legs, caressing and exploring. It was only when she gasped – straining for more - that Tony realized they were still in the hallway.

"Keys." he ordered into her lips.

Otherwise they would find themselves explaining to Gibbs why two NCIS agents had been apprehended for public indecency.

"Door" was her breathless reply.

Ziva had given up trying to open her front door. She couldn't think straight – the keys were in the lock. One step into the apartment, she hooked her legs up around him, hands clasped around his neck. Tony kicked the front door closed and took the hint, carrying her to the bedroom. Clothing was shed with ridiculous speed.

Tony pulled Ziva down and she tilted her head with an inquiring smile as she straddled across him.

He grinned, "You like it on top."

Ziva had been over halfway there before they were in her apartment. And it had been a very long time since Tony had been shaky with anticipation over a women; he almost lost it when he slid inside Ziva. The combination of watching her respond as he stroked her clit and the sensation of her tightening around his cock, as she built, left him fighting for control. He flipped them over, moving harder and deeper. Not quite exquisite; more like urgent and intense. Ziva arched and writhed beneath him; her fingers pulled his hair and nails gripped his shoulder as she came - about a second before he did.

Tony woke to discover she wasn't in the bed. He waited to see if Ziva came back; taking a minute to absorb what had happened. She didn't. He got up and threw on boxers and jeans. She had finished cleaning her weapons and was putting them back together and away. This wasn't a good sign.

"Seriously?" he sat on the arm of the couch, "at fucking one o'clock in the morning?"

Ziva was on her way to the kitchen, "I wish to be prepared."

Her guard was back up. Tony shook his head in amazement – her mood could switch in a heartbeat.

"Professionally you are prepared. You were probably born with little baby fingers clasped 'round the stock of a goddamned Mini-Uzi."

Ignoring the playful comment, she continued into the other room and he considered the problem and possible solutions. Distress over her father's visit was compounded by the events of the night. She returned.

"The other stuff, you're never gonna be prepared for Zee-vah." His voice was gentle. "It'll happen, we'll figure it out and we'll deal with it."

He wanted to reassure her. Ziva was still fiddling with gun supplies, constantly moving and clearly agitated.

"I'll put a fucking bullet in him myself if he hurts you again, sweetheart." There was no suggestion of levity in his statement.

"Why did Gibbs tell you?"

They were back, virtually, where the night had started. Tony walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. "Jesus, stand still. You're making me motion-sick just watching you."

She didn't try to wriggle free, though she avoided his gaze; pressing her fingers together – a quirk when she was stressed. "Why di….?"

Tony winced, the answer might tip her either way.

"I heard you the first time." He grinned, slightly nervous, "I think he thought we were already doing what we just did."

Tony was partially correct on her reaction. Ziva's eyes widened as she processed the implication. Tony laughed at the alarmed expression on her face. Although she did manage to surprise him too; instead of verbally lashing out or finding a way to run, she moved nearer to Tony.

"You OK?" he tried to read what she was thinking.

Ziva nodded "Yes."

He caught hold of her chin and looked her in the eyes, searching for confirmation.

"No." She confessed, "I will be."

She snuggled against him; finding comfort and calm simply by being close to him. Tony wasn't about to let her off the hook that easily.

"Why will you be OK?" Ziva didn't say anything, "Hey Ninja?"

She warily tried to express her feelings, 'because of this….this was good."

He kissed the top of her head. "You'll have to be a little more specific; this what?"

He was going to make her say it – he had his own uncertainties to assuage. Ziva took a breath.

"This….You. Being with you is better… I would like this to continue."

Tony relaxed at her words. "OK."

She glanced up at him, with a small questioning smile. "Gibbs will…." Her stalled remark said what they were both thinking. She frowned; "now what?"

There was no way he was attempting to address those complexities tonight: "now?" Tony cocked his head. "I only rated as good. Now I'm gonna remedy that."

The second time _was_ exquisite – and took much longer.


	11. Epilogue

"Aw, You Two Got Married And Didn't Tell Me."

Suspicion: S4

Various teams were gathered, around the plasma screen, in a conference room. They were reviewing drills and protocols for protecting Eli David.

"Anyone have questions?" Director Vance inquired. The group shook their heads or murmured a negative.

"Probationary Agent David, are you comfortable with this assignment?"

It was a little harsh, to confront her directly in front of everyone. However, Vance had his own methods for obtaining results from his people.

Ziva stiffened slightly, "I will admit the idea has thrown me through a hoop…." She began.

Tony was standing behind her. He leaned forward "it's 'for a loop' Zee-vah." His correction uttered as a stage-whisper. "Apologies Director Vance, the English language is one of Agent David's many victims."

Ziva deliberately stepped back, "I am sorry Tony. Was that your foot?"

The interplay provoked a collective snicker in the room.

"I will be fine. Thank you for your concern, Director." Ziva concluded her reply with more assurance.

Gibbs was leant up against a wall - off to one side. He shook his head in admiration with a half smile. No-one had noticed that when Tony leaned over, he had placed a hand on Ziva's opposite shoulder – it was still there. Essentially his arm was around her. And when Ziva had moved, she had closed the gap between them. Her back was practically resting against Tony's chest. It had been executed like a well-rehearsed comedy routine – except it was all instinctive. One would act and the other react; one would lead and the other follow. The protagonist altering to suit whatever the situation required. Half the time, Tony and Ziva didn't need to communicate. It was the reason they made such an excellent team. Gibbs sighed inwardly. It was also the obvious sign that they were destined to be together. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Mentally he amended his rules: Rule #51 – 'Sometimes, You're Wrong' – would supersede Rule #12 because Rule #12 didn't cover falling in love. And Gibbs knew that was precisely what Tony and Ziva had done.


End file.
